IN AGES PAST, the Flathead Native
Americans fought a war against a monstrous force that stalks the woods
surrounding Flathead Lake. So says William Rox, legendary musician and director
of the prestigious Colman’s Amateur Music Program, known as CAMP.

Jimmy Downs is thrilled to be
attending CAMP—or he would be, if he weren’t being bullied by campers who seem
to think wealth can buy talent. Jimmy doesn’t have money, but he can drum like
no one else. As for the bullies, at least his best friend, Michael Munday, is
with him. The two have had each other’s backs all of their lives.

But bullies are about to become the
least of Jimmy’s worries. Dark, hulking figures begin surrounding the woods
around camp…figures that bear more than a passing resemblance to Rox’s campfire
stories.

Jimmy and Michael are about to
become players in a very old war—assuming they survive.

The black-cloaked
figure knelt by the lake, examining the muddy soil. A great northern storm had
rolled through hours ago, but the air was still frigid. Waves crashed against
the stony shore, waterdrops splashing up against his waterproof black covering.

His fingers traced
along the print clearly pressed into the mud. It was a large paw print,
something like the shape of a wolf’s but the size of a bear’s. He examined the
mark on the ground and then moved to where he should have found the creature’s
front paws, but not surprisingly, he instead found what appeared to be
humanlike handprints, with long, triangular fingernails jutting out from the
tip of each finger. The cloaked man placed his own right hand within the print,
knowing that the muddy outline was easily twice the size of his own pale hand.

His left hand
tightened around the shaft of his bow as he stood up.

Even though it was
nearing one in the morning, his eyes clearly made out the many prints that had
been made throughout this particular clearing.

He had warned the
other guardian that something was going on.

“Why so many?” the
man asked aloud as he pulled down the hood of his cloak. “There shouldn’t be
this many here anymore.”

“What’s that?” a
British man’s voice called from the darkness.

A flashlight’s
beam bobbed through the trees, weaving back and forth until it fell upon the
pale man’s form. The man lifted one of his hands to block his sensitive eyes
from the somewhat dim beam. He indicated the soil in front of him that marked
the passing of their quarries.

“A pack,” the pale
man told his companion, moving the tip of his weapon to indicate how many
individual creatures had passed through there. “You should keep the camp closed
this year.”

“No,” the huge
British man answered, snapping his response a little more testily than he had
wanted. “It needs to be open. You know just as well as I do that we need to
stay open.”

“Even at the risk
of the lives of hundreds of people?”

His companion
stepped forward and jammed a double-edged longsword into the ground as he
examined the pathway. The flashlight was a head lamp, mounted with a pair of
bands that wrapped around his head. As his head shifted from one set of prints
to another, a feeling of anger began flooding into his soul.

“I need you to
thin out this pack. You can shoot the sods from afar, and with that horse of
yours, you’ll be able to stay ahead of them.”

“I can do that,”
the pale man agreed, pulling his hood back up, still watching the back of the
big man.

“There’s something
going on this year that we don’t understand quite yet,” the British man told
his friend, standing up and pulling the sword from the moistened ground.
“Something feels different. It feels wrong…and right at the same time.”

“Maybe the legends
are true, and the natives’ stories are coming to pass,” the archer suggested,
beginning to stroll into a particularly dark portion of the forest, his fingers
tightening on the dark wood of his bow as he disappeared into the night.

Finding himself
alone, the swordsman stood and peered up into the sky at the bright round moon
hanging in the air, twinkling stars engulfing the night. This was Big Sky
Country, and it was true to its name. His eyes searched the heavens, hoping
that an answer would reveal itself.

He let out a huff
of hot breath, and the air clouded before his flashlight dimming the light
slightly.

Shaking his head
and turning to stare at the spot where his companion had disappeared, he
whispered to himself, “I hope not. We’re not ready for them yet.”

As his words
disappeared into the night like his breath, a clear rumbling sound thundered
through the night on his left. Reaching down slowly, he drew his sword once
more, its silver blade sparkling with the light of the moon.

“God above, keep
me safe that I might be able to open the camp.”

The rocky growl turned into a mix of a scream
and a roar as the furry eight-foot monstrosity leaped at the man, humanlike
hands reaching out with razor claws. Swinging the sword out wide, the man
pivoted to meet the demon in the darkness.

About
the Author:

Jeffrey was born in Ogden, Utah in
1989.

Born to a podiatrist from Utah and
a rancher's daughter from Montana. Stagg was able travel throughout his
childhood finding solace and inspiration in the wild.

His interest in nature has made
Stagg realize that the melding of natural world with magic was where he could
excel. To keep ideas alive, Stagg is an avid nature photographer, imagining
book scenes wherever he travels.

While attending Weber State
University, Stagg was able to work as an artisan cheese maker for the award
winning Beehive Cheese Co. in Ogden, Utah. It was there that the details of A
Campfire Nightmare came together. During the 5 years he was employed at
Beehive, Stagg has created story lines for many series he is in the process of
writing.

Now, Stagg works as an educator and
works with students in reading and writing. Encouraging those around him to
spend more time in books.